His eyes glittered, his cheeks were flushed. Erin said nothing.
‘And how about you, Ms Belmont. Are you a believer?’
Lydia set her untouched orange juice on the table by her side. ‘Indeed, I am, sir. I attend the First Methodist church in Albany every Sunday morning.’
Stern beamed. ‘Then you, madam, know what I’m talking about. Didn’t Jesus say, “hate the sin, not the sinner”? So, who are we, as mere mortals, to pass judgement on others? Only God can do that.’
Erin regarded Stern with a twinge of doubt. This was the big reveal? An evangelical epiphany. Tim being the sinner, and the sin… the murder of Stern’s wife and daughters. Or was it a means of pre-empting the one burning question he knew they would ask? Why?
In two strides, he returned to his chair, where he leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankle. Lord of the manor, master of his realm.
‘Dr Cartwright, you look sceptical.’ Stern’s eyes pinned her to the sofa. ‘I’m happy to tell you anything you’d like to know.’
When she set her half-drunk cappuccino on the table, the click of glass on the polished stone was loud in the stillness. Another log collapsed into coals. Their visit was meant to be a home study, not an inquisition, but Erin was bursting with questions. She glanced at Lydia, who gave her the go-ahead with the briefest of nods.
‘All right,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light. ‘After twenty-seven years of no contact with your son, why have you suddenly offered to take him under your roof?’ They eyed each other across the distance. ‘Why give shelter to the man who murdered your wife and daughters?’
Lydia sucked in her breath, but Erin refused to pull any punches. If Stern couldn’t handle a little tough questioning, he had no business taking on Tim, regardless of his motives. To paint a rosy picture of sharing a home with a mentally disturbed and long-institutionalised man would be a grave disservice.
The skin round Stern’s eyes tightened, but then his expression turned earnest, and he leaned forward. ‘I found God, Dr Cartwright. It’s as simple as that.’
‘You said you found God seven years ago. Why the delay in contacting your son?’
He stood and poked at the glowing embers in the hearth. ‘When God came into my life, I was married to a lovely woman named Margaret. As kind and loving a wife as any man could ask for.’ He bowed his head and passed his hand over his eyes. ‘May God rest her soul.’
Erin couldn’t help but picture the first wife. Hadn’t she been kind and loving?
‘When Margaret and I first met,’ he continued, ‘I’d been alone for nearly ten years, wallowing in the black hole of my grief. For months I was too much of a coward to tell her about my family. I even started using my middle name after the move to California. But I wasn’t a complete cad. Before I asked Margaret to marry me, I sat her down and told her everything.’ He searched their faces as if seeking absolution.
‘The poor woman was devastated. To her, Tim was the devil incarnate. She didn’t believe in mental illness, just good and evil. And she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t locked up in a prison for life rather than some cushy psychiatric hospital. Or that he might walk out of that hospital in the future. She wouldn’t agree to marry unless I severed all contact.’ His eyes brimmed with tears. ‘So, I did. I married Margaret and let Tim go. Last spring, after fifteen happy years together, she passed away from cancer. A remarkable woman. I miss her every day.’ He closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer, taking his seat once again.
Erin and Lydia waited.
‘So, after your wife died,’ Erin prompted, ‘you were released from your promise, and free to contact your son?’
‘That’s right.’ His face brightened. ‘Six months ago, I called the hospital and spoke to this Harrison fellow. He told me about Tim, and how he could petition the state for his release. I understand he’s been eligible for quite a while now, but with nowhere for him to go, there was little chance of him getting out. Well, let me tell you, when I heard that, a light bulb went on. Here was a chance to do God’s work.’ He leaned back in the chair and beamed. ‘Now that I’m retired and on my own, I can offer a place of refuge to my son.’
Erin waited for Lydia to chime in, but she was busy making notes for Tim’s file.
At the back of the house, a phone rang. Stern let it ring five times, then six. ‘I suppose I should get that.’ He made a sign of apology. ‘If you ladies will excuse me.’
His Italian loafers skimmed silently across the polished oak. In the hall, a floorboard creaked. Stern’s cheery ‘hello’ was clearly audible, but the rest faded as a door was closed. Impossible to make out any words, but the timbre of his voice seemed to change. He sounded angry.
She ventured a whisper. ‘What do you think?’
Lydia shook her head. Not now.
Erin jumped when she caught sight of Stern in the doorway.
She hadn’t heard him return. He crossed the room and tossed a birch log on the fire. With a sharp crackle, it burst into flame.
18
‘Dr Cartwright, another cappuccino? Or perhaps you’d prefer tea? Though I can’t claim I’ve ever been to your neck of the woods, my idea of English folks is that they live on tea and scones.’
‘We have to be on our way soon,’ Lydia said, cutting in smoothly, ‘but
